An Unsolvable Puzzle
by halfreadbook
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a strangely unique man. One year after his death, he returns - much to the surprise of his best friend Dr. John Watson. Molly Hooper is infatuated with Sherlock and has not seen him since she helped to fake his death. Everything will change, but time is running out.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

* * *

The room was laid out in dressed tables laden with empty plates and full wine glasses, with black napkins at every place. St Bartholemew's Hospital staff and the local police had joined with some of Scotland Yard to remember the death of detective Sherlock Holmes, and there were several guests from the media to publicize the event.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sat at the table in front of the room. "Today," he began, speaking into his microphone, "marks the year anniversary of the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes."

Everyone in the room received a text immediately. They all checked their phones, and gradually began to realise that the whole room had gotten the same text, all of them from an unknown number.

**Wrong!**

They dismissed it as a sick joke, just someone trying to mimic Sherlock's intrusion at the press conference of the multiple supposed suicides last year. Lestrade continued with his speech, and when he was finished, the figure to the right of him stood up.

"I am John Watson," he informed the silent crowd. "And Sherlock was my best friend, flat-mate, and partner in work. Exactly a year ago today, I received a phone call. It was his note. I saw my best friend jump from the top of the hospital, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I saw him die."

Again, the vibrations of everyone's mobile made the room shake.

**Wrong!**

Once was a joke, but twice was slightly pushing it. John ignored the distraction and pressed on. "But tonight will not be a sombre occasion. Tonight, we hold this event to celebrate the greatest detective the world has ever known."  
A few months after Sherlock Holmes' death, the media has accepted that Richard Brook was a false identity after there seemed to be no more records of him, anywhere.

"The very first time I met Sherlock, he told me so much. He told me about my time in the military, about my sister, about my injury. He told me things that he could never possibly have guessed. After he deduced so much about me, we moved into a flat together. I barely knew the man, but I knew he was clearly unique. There will never be anyone who is like him again. The only person who could possibly be similar to Sherlock could be Sherlock himself, and he, as we all know, is unable to return.

**Wrong!**

Three times was not a coincidence. Nor was it a joke. Whoever this was, they were definitely not joking. They were serious. But who was it?  
John's phone received an extra text, one which no-one else had received.

**You know where to find me. SH**

This... this had to be a pretence. There was no way it could be Sherlock. Sherlock... he was dead, wasn't he?

"Excuse me," John mumbled as he made his way to the exit. Hailing a cab, he jumped in and told the driver to take him to 221B Baker Street. He hadn't been able to sell the flat after Sherlock's death, he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. He found his keys and fumbled with them as he tried to put them in the doorway. He had to go to sleep, calm down, then when he woke up in the morning everything would be back to normal and there would be no Sherlock imitators in his life.

As he opened the door to his flat, he didn't take notice of the room in front of him. He turned to lock the door, then turned back around to face the room.

There was a dark haired man sitting in the armchair, playing a melancholy melody on a violin. His curls sat neatly on his milky skin and his suit was unmistakeable.

Sherlock Holmes was back.

* * *

_Hey everyone! I'm Molly and I'm 15. Recently I decided I'm going to try and write a lot more fanfiction so here you go._

_This will hopefully go on for at least 20 chapters and will be eventual Sherlolly. When I say eventual I mean really eventual._

**_Okay, so I'm really sorry if I offended anyone by my last author's note. I have read some awesome Sherlollys which I would be proud to be the writer of so I'm sorry D: I know that this isn't going to be phenomenal and I'm not the best writer either, I'm just saying that I'm trying to write this in my own style. I didn't mean to come off as horrible in my first A/N, I meant it in the nicest way possible and just that Sherlock seemed OOC, not that the writing in other peoples' fics was bad because it honestly wasn't. Sorry.__  
_**

_Rating may change but it's suitable for now._

_Thankyou for reading! Next update should be in the next few days. I have it typed up but I want to space it out in case I get writer's block in the future. _

_(Sorry for the long A/N. It won't be this long again, I promise.)_


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

The girl sat in her flat with her feet on the well-used coffee table and a cup of coffee clasped in her hands. She sat drinking the coffee in the quietness of the still room, thinking about nothing except the heat emanating from the chipped mug. When she had finished, she placed it next to the sink along with the other stained mugs that had built up over the past few days, and got into the shower, which was much-needed after the long day at work. As the boiling water ran over her tired body, she lathered herself in soap, washing the smell of death away. After years of working at a morgue, you got used to the smell, but she was well aware that other people definitely weren't used to it. She thought about what day it was.

Today marked the anniversary of the supposed death of a certain Mr Holmes. She had been infatuated with him and still was, although over the past year she had learned to surpress her feelings when asked on dates with other men, because in the past year she had not seen the man once. She had helped him to fake his own death and he showed no gratitude - he hadn't even thanked her yet!

It had taken a few weeks for the news to sink in that she wouldn't be able to see him again but during the last few months she had grown accustomed to not seeing the tall figure of him around her workplace, asking her for coffee or help. She knew she would probably never see him again, and had finally come to terms with that. Her life was okay now. Not as good as she thought it could have been with him by her side, but okay all the same.

She finished her shower and made some more coffee, sitting in the same place as before. Molly picked up the TV remote and began flicking through the channels, not finding anything that interested her until she came to a news story.

"Sherlock Holmes memorial dinner interrupted by prankster," read the headline across the bottom of the screen.. Her eyes were glued to the story.

"I'm here at St Bartholomew's Hospital where a dinner was being held tonight to mark the one-year anniversary of the death of detective Sherlock Holmes. During speeches given by Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, the room received texts saying 'Wrong' - not unsimilar to the incident with the texts at the press conference for the supposed serial suicides last year, sent by Mr Holmes himself. Who could this prankster be? Three times, the room received the same text, and on the third time during John Watson's speech, he excused himself. As of yet, he has not returned and the room are congregating themselves. There is absolutely no order here! This is Kitty Riley for News at Nine, reporting from St Bartholomew's Hospital."

She sat in shock, her coffee steadily dripping over her lap. It... it couldn't be him, could it? It had been a year, surely he wouldn't publicly announce that his death was a fake now, after all this time? It was ridiculous! She shook her head bringing her back to reality, and straightened her coffee mug - not that it had made any difference because it had all drained out. Sighing, she took off her clothes again and had another shower, washing the liquid from her legs slowly. It had been a long day. As the coffee ran down the plughole, so did any hopes of peace. Somewhere in her heart, she knew it must have been him, and as much as she wanted to see him again, he definitely had a lot of explaining to do.

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Update will be in the next few days again! _

_Reviews always mean a better quality piece of writing so please remember to review if you liked or didn't like it._


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

John collapsed on the sofa, unable to believe what his eyes were telling him. He opened his mouth to begin a sentence but as his mind formed words, his mouth would not form them.

"Evening, John," said the man in the armchair.

"E-evening," He stuttered. "Wh-where the hell have you been?" Any doubt had been turned into anger that this man had left him for a year with no word, let him think he was dead when he was gallivanting around.

"Keeping myself busy," Sherlock avoided the question skilfully.

"What the hell have you been doing? I saw you, dead! I saw your head smashed in! I stood at your grave with Mrs Hudson, I even went to your funeral! How the hell can you be sitting there alive?"  
"I had help." he plucked a few strings on the violin in no particular sequence.

"Who's crazy enough to help a psychopath fake their own death?"  
"I'm not a psychopath, John, I'm a highly-functioning sociopath."  
"It doesn't make any difference to me!"  
"Molly," Sherlock muttered. "Molly helped."  
"Molly?! Why didn't she tell me?"  
"I asked her not to."  
"God, Sherlock!" He put his head in his hands, partly glad his friend was back and partly wishing it was all a bad dream. "How could you do this to me?" His question was muffled by his hands but still audible.

"Look on the bright side, at least the flat won't cost you as much now I'm back."  
"I used to pay all of it anyway!"  
"Noted."

"How- why- what- how did you persuade her to do that?"  
"It wasn't difficult."  
"Oh, don't tell me you seduced her," he groaned.

"Of course not, John. I don't see how that would help in this situation regardless."  
The army doctor's mouth gaped. "She liked you! She _loved_ you, Sherlock! How could you not have noticed?"  
"What?" He put the violin down. "She- what?"  
"You _used_ her! You used her all the time, for coffee and help and drinks and experiments and-"  
"But-"  
"Sherlock, you say you're smart but when it comes to social skills you're clueless..."

"Social skills? Waste of time."  
"Right there. That's your issue with people. Learn some social skills and maybe you'd have noticed she liked you. Knowing you, you probably didn't even thank the poor girl. I'm going to bed."  
As John retired to his bedroom, he left the detective in the armchair to think about what he'd done.

_It's true_, Sherlock realised. _I didn't even thank her. _Oh well, she wouldn't mind. She probably assumed he was thankful, so it was all okay. _I need to talk to Lestrade, _he mused further, _there must be a lot of cases built up over the past year which he could use my help on. _

He strode briskly into the police station, not caring about the unusual glances he received from the staff on night shifts who had not been informed of his return. They started to whisper behind him, wondering how he was back, if he really was back or if they had all overdosed on a hallucinogenic recently. One of the workers brushed against him on purpose to confirm his reality and that his vision was not fooling him and he did not simply need very strong glasses. Sherlock Holmes was definitely back.

Holmes realised his mistake; that Lestrade would probably still be at the memorial dinner. Quite pointless now considering there wasn't really anything to remember. _Oh well, _he thought. _I'll go to sleep and ask tomorrow. I can't live off of nicotine patches for the rest of my life, unfortunately._

* * *

_Sorry for the wait! I haven't had time to write recently so I thought I'd span it out a bit rather than uploading quickly and leaving an even longer gap after the four chapters I had written up. I'm planning to write some more tonight, so updates every couple of days, if not every day._

_Thank you for reading/reviewing/following/favouriting!_


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

It was 2am and Molly Hooper was unable to sleep. She had gotten into bed at ten hoping to have an early night but once again her stubborn mind had defied her.

She couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock and him coming back. What was that saying? Oh yes, "absence makes the heart grow fonder". Usually that saying was about a week's holiday or days when people were ill, but almost certainly not when you hadn't seen someone for a year. It had been tough on Molly, but she had managed to cope just as she did before he left.

The only thing that bothered her was that he hadn't even been considerate enough to check in on her or even just to text her and see how she was. He had to have thought about her a little while he was away; after all she was the only one that knew he was alive rather than dead during that year.

She reminded herself that Sherlock Holmes was not a considerate man. He was not the type to text people out of concern, nor our of sympathy or out of gratitude.

She had missed him, a lot. On the surface she remained unchanged, except for the first few days after he left during which she had mourned appropriately for a best friend, so as not to arouse suspicion among other friends, but since then she had been fine. She believed she had almost been on the edge of finally getting over the detective and possibly falling in love with someone new but his return had interfered with her plans to do that.

She guessed it would be the same as it used to be now, seeing him occasionally in the lab and helping him with analysis but nothing more.

The next morning, she awoke at eight am after a bad night's sleep and several dreams. She got dressed, stumbling around her apartment trying to do up the buttons on her lab coat in her fatigued state, pulling a cereal bar from the cupboard to eat on the tube on the way to the hospital. Molly would make coffee when she got there as she had a lot of work to do and was already later than she had wanted to be. She slipped on some black dolly shoes and walked to the tube station. When she got to work, the pathologist immediately went to pour herself a cup of caffeine to wake herself up, correctly assuming no-one else would be in the kitchen at that point. Taking it back to the lab she sat drinking, feeling the energy invade her body and gradually inspire her muscles for the day.

Examining the corpse in front of her, she noticed some strange marks on the victim's neck. They looked like... she didn't know. She would have to consult John and see what he thought. They could have been rope marks but the pattern was too frequent and neat to be rope, and the puncture marks at the nape suggested something which was definitively not a rope. As she stood there puzzling over the cause of death for the poor soul, she heard the door open strongly, sending a momentary gust of air her way, and without looking up she knew who the distinctive footsteps belonged to.

"Hello, Sherlock," she greeted the man she had not seen for a year without looking up from the body.

"Snake," he said. "Adder going by the pattern and punctures, less than seven hours ago I'd say."

"Wha- oh, yes, the body."  
"Of course the body, what else could I have possibly been talking about?"  
"I- I don't know, I'm sorry." The girl's nerves had overwhelmed her. "How have you been?" She attempted to start a conversation to no avail. He didn't reply, quite clearly too absorbed in the dead to answer her. _I might as well be lying on that table as a dead body, _she thought, _at least then he'd pay more attention to me than he does now_.

As quickly as he had entered the room, he left, leaving Molly speechless to finish the autopsy. He hadn't changed a single bit, and she realised that neither had she. Her heart was telling her that she was definitely still in love with the consulting detective, and that she wanted him more than anything.

* * *

_Sorry for the wait! I've been so busy lately._

_Keep the feedback coming, it really helps with improving my writing._

_Thank you :D_


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Sherlock paced the room with a loaded pistol in his hand. "Bored," he muttered.

"Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored!" With each new 'bored' his tone got more frustrated and his volume grew until he was shouting the sequence at top volume. The door opened, but a quick glance told him it was only Mrs. Hudson and so he dismissed the woman.  
"Sherlock, what have you been doing now?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a motherly tone.

"Bored." He replied.  
"There's a girl come to see you, said you'd know who she was."  
"Tell her she may enter." He knew exactly who she was.

Less than two minutes later, Sherlock sat in his armchair carefully watching the slender figure walking around. "I knew it would only be a matter of time before you revealed yourself, Mr. Holmes," the sultry voice said. "The pathologist was a good idea, was she not?"

"Yes. I have to admit she was one of my better ideas."

"I presume she knows you're back?"  
"Yes, of course."  
"And she still loves you..." The Woman murmured.

"What?" He had heard what Irene had said quite clearly, but he was oblivious as to the meaning. "What?"

"You mean the great Sherlock Holmes didn't know something?" She feigned horror and he rolled his eyes. "The pathologist. She's in love with you. Shame, really, because I have a list of things I want to do involving you and that scarf." She stroked the scarf around his neck tenderly as the glimmer of sadness crossed her eye. Sherlock missed the flash of emotion, unable to comprehend what she had just said.

"But- no, that Christmas present meant nothing. Just friendly, that's all."  
"You said it yourself, someone she cares a lot about. And the lipstick, the perfume - did you never question _why_ she applied more when you were around? What did you pass it off as this time? The girl's blind to anyone else but you."

_How can Molly be in love with me?_ He thought. _It's not impossible, but I was under the impression it was highly improbable before Irene showed up. _

_Could it really be true? Molly is my favourite pathologist, true, but I have never intentionally expressed any romantic feelings towards her. I treat her the same as I would anyone else. Why would I treat her differently when she is nothing more than a friend to me?_

_What is the protocol for these types of situation? Do I just sit and do nothing? I'd ask John but his lack of sexual partners indicates inexperience therefore he is not qualified enough to advise me. Who else can I ask?_

"Irene," he cleared his throat subtlely. "What should I do?" He bowed his head at a minute angle as if embarrassed to be asking for help. A slight rose blush slowly spread across his pale cheeks, but not enough to be entirely visible.

"You might as well have a bit of fun," she said. "It's about enough time you had some fun. You wouldn't let me, so why not let her? I'm sure she'd be willling."  
"I- I'm not like that."  
"You don't have to be. I think I have some more of that sleep-inducing drug on hand..."  
"No need for that."  
"No, of course, I forgot you were into more... traditional methods."

"Leave. I have thinking to do and you're interrupting."  
"I didn't say any-"  
"You're thinking. It's annoying."

She rolled her eyes, turned on the heel of her laced boots and walked out, shutting the door behind her after she shot him one last glance. Sherlock sat down, his fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes closed with thought. He was confused. For probably the first time in his life, he was confused. What Irene had revealed, it had made him think. What if she spoke the truth, and Molly really was in love with him? He shook the thought out of his head slowly. It was still improbable, still not a likely situation. He sat for hours, puzzling over it as if it were a case, but not reaching a sustainable verdict. Molly was a puzzle he was afraid he'd never solve.

* * *

_Hi! To avoid confusion, this is **Time is Running Out**. I changed the name to something which I felt was more appropriate._

_It's been a few days and I have up to the end of Chapter Seven typed up now but I'm spacing out the typed up chapters so I don't run out too quickly._

_Thanks for reading and stay tuned for another update soon!_

_By the way, I just self-published a novel I wrote last year. If you want to have a look, it's here . /Changing-State-Molly-Preston/dp/1481206400/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371749847&sr=8-1&keywords=changing+state+molly+preston and I would be so grateful to anyone who bought it! The first chapter can be found if you click on the 'look inside' link on Amazon._

_Thank you!_


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

_Molly sat in front of the mirror, allowing one of her good friends Mary to apply the pastel make-up. The brush gently caressed her face and transformed her from ordinary Molly to beautiful Molly. The sat patiently as her hair was weaved into a delicate pattern, then completed with several pearl-headed hair pins. Her fingers were closed tightly around a champagne glass, nerves overcoming and overwhelming her mind like a numbing sensation. A long piece of white organza wound into her hair, held firmly in place with more pins. A flower crown seamlessly joined the fabric to the hair, white azaleas, orchids and primroses. Her eyes shone with anticipation of the day ahead. She slipped into the garment, a simple piece with lace and pearls, tight on the bodice but a flowing, goddess-like skirt. Mary laced her into the dress, and Molly slid into the pure white shoes, small heels but not too big that she'd trip. She was ready._

_It was not long before the doors opened and the violin started to play. _Bach_, she smiled. She gazed at the face waiting for her at the end of the aisle, the perfect face resting on the violin as he played. He looked up at her for a second and smirked. Her cheeks flushed, and she took the steps as if she were an infant and each step was her first. She had been dreaming of this day her whole life and it had finally-_

Molly sat up abruptly in her bed, her breath slightly broken, her face half lit with the moonlight forcing its way through the gap in the curtains. Placing a hand on her rapid heartbeat, she began to calm down - _deep breaths, in, and out_. When the beat of her heart had restored itself to its regular pace, she sighed. She wanted the dream to be true, so much, but at the same time she felt like a silly, lost, lovesick puppy, chasing a man who would never and could never love her back. She felt futile; she was going nowhere and she was wasting her time following him and hanging on to the gradually fraying thread of hope with everything she had.

She had to remind herself that life wasn't a fairytale. Miracles didn't happen and wishes didn't come true. Swinging her feet out of bed gently, she padded to the window and poked her head through the curtains, watching the nightlife of London live its life. As if on cue, a shooting star streaked the sky with white-gold, and she wished for the man who would never come true. The wish was over in a second, fizzling out like a broken firework, and Molly was once again alone with the melancholy moonlight caressing her face gently, stroking her softly as if she was a friend in need of comfort. She trudged slowly out of the room, unable to return to the land of quiet slumber, and put the kettle on to boil. Yawning, she stroked the cat who sat on the counter in front of her, staring up at her with huge, irresistable pools of darkness, purring with delight at the sensation of her fingertips and curling his slender body against her palms. The kettle boiled and she poured herself a cup of tea. As she was pouring the boiling water, she heard a knock at the door. It was three am. "Who is it?" she called softly, so she didn't wake the whole building up. There was no answer, and there was no more sound. The mysterious knocker had either disappeared, or had never existed at all. Turning back to the mug on the counter, she realised she had been pouring for too long and the water was slowly overflowing and tumbling over the side of the counter where it met the floor with a resounding splash. She hurried to clean it up with a dishcloth, wiping the surfaces then tossing the wet cloth into the washing machine, and finally re-boiling the water and sitting down on the sofa with her hands clasped around the warm mug, her dressing gown sleeves pulled halfway over her hands. She sipped carefully, feeling the liquid burn a lasting trail down her throat, much like the tears which were absent-mindedly sliding down her pale cheeks. She didn't realise she was crying until she saw a tiny splash in her mug, and even then she didn't much take it into account. It was routine, really - get home from work, eat, cry, sleep. Most of the time she wasn't crying about anything in particular, however she wasn't entirely sure that could said for this occurence. It was the stupid consulting detective and his stupid curls and his stupid intelligence and his stupid coat and his stupid perfection. He filled up her mind, quenching her thirst for satisfaction and dehydrating her of herself all at the same time. He was different, that was one thing she'd learned after years of knowing him.

_The young student took her place at the lab desk, dropping her backpack on the floor and her books on the table. The teacher hadn't arrived yet so she opened up a textbook and began to read, avidly learning of cell structure and identification. As she was reading, a tall, elegant boy strode past her and sat beside her. Rather than taking a textbook out s she had, he sat with his hands at a point under his chin, deep in thought, and the girl nervously glanced over to him. That was the first moment she had known._

_"I'm Molly," she said, extending a hand to him. He ignored coughed pointedly and eventually caught his attention._

_"Sherlock," he replied with a voice that sounded like it was thickly coated in treacle. He didn't shake her hand, but instead continued to follow his thoughts. From that point, the pathologist-in-training had known that he was _very_ different._

* * *

_I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo this month (google it) so I won't be uploading often. Sorry for the gap before this chapter! I have Chapter 7 written up but not 8 yet, so you'll have to bear with me._

_Thankyou! -Molly_


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